


If Only He Had Stayed

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Drugs, F/M, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Sherlock and John get what they want, and then lose each other all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only He Had Stayed

It was only twice.  
Twice he got to feel John's skin beneath his own, twice he learned all of John's body, twice he hear John's moans and twice he felt John shudder in release. Only two times, two nights to catalogue all of Johan's scents and moans and faces he made at different points in sex and as a scientist, Sherlock knew that twice wasn't nearly enough to have all data correct and accurate and memorized.  
Still, it had been beautiful, wonderful, the happiest Sherlock had felt in-well, forever. And now it was over. For good.  
They had been caught too soon, far to soon, by Mary. John had left in the morning, reluctance plain in his eyes as they moved over Sherlock's still undressed body.  
"Don't go John," Sherlock had said. "Don't leave me." But John had to. He had had to leave, go back to his domestic bliss with Mary, go back to whatever she had that Sherlock seemingly could never give him.  
Mary. God, how he hated her. He wasn't even sure he had emotions before John, and after John? Well they were all just falling into his lap, weren't they. First, love. Love, that for all his observational powers he couldn't see reflected in John, even though now he knew, as John had told him, it had been there. Then the pain, the hurt, the agony of watching John cry at his grave, the pain of leaving John's side to fight for him and their lives without him. And then the hate for Mary, the women who had ruined it all, ruined everything he and John could've been with one small ring.  
Or at least he had thought everything. It seemed like she had taken John all for herself when he realized she really hadn't, that he understood an important part of john that she never would, never could. The part that craved danger and excitement, the rush of adrenaline and the pumping of frantic blood through his veins. She didn't need it, didn't want it like John did, and that's what Sherlock provided for John. All he could provide for John, as far as he could tell. And somehow, that had been enough, until Sherlock left and John needed something to fill the gaping hole left in his heart.  
The hole hadn't quite filled though. Sherlock soon knew that, as soon as John started taking cases again with him, started laughing with him and eating dinner with him, and spending almost as much time with Sherlock as he did with Mary. On a way, it was like nothing had changed, except that John went to a different place than Sherlock every night.   
Until he didn't.  
The first time it was their hundredth case after he had returned (a bit of an exaggeration and of course not an accurate number but by this point it was like they had never been separated) and John had provided a serious jumping off point for Sherlock, something Sherlock never would've thought of, and Sherlock, in the heat of the moment, the spur of the chase, marveled at the simplicity of John's mind and mumbled "Brilliant." The look John gave turned him on so hard and so fast it felt like he couldn't breath. He soon returned to the task at hand, the multiple murders and serial killer, and solved it by the end of the night, but it was like his brain was on autopilot and all he was truly thinking about was whether John would give him that look if Sherlock kissed him-a look of bewilderment and pure joy. And when john murmured to him as they rode to Baker Street "Bloody fucking brilliant" as an answer to Sherlock's explanation that of course it was the nurse and not the doctor, it was all Sherlock could do from committing to the deed right there.  
Instead, he dragged John up the stairs and into the flat they had once shared before John married Mary (what funny alliteration, that. He wondered if John, as a self-proclaimed writer had noticed it.) and politely asked John to make him some tea. John gave him somewhat of a confused look, but complied nonetheless. As john stood in the kitchen and waited for the kettle to boil, Sherlock sat in his chair and wondered how he was going to orchestrate it all.  
In the end, there was no need to. John placed the tea down, Sherlock grabbed his sleeve, and their eyes locked. John bent down and Sherlock up, and all of a sudden they were kissing, ravishing each other's mouths, and then they were in Sherlock's bedroom, and then in the bed, clothes discarded along with all the reservations that had stopped them before. Both were inexperienced and unsure, but both wanted it so badly that it worked and after all was over and done, Sherlock wondered why they hadn't done it sooner. Oh, John's face as he had come, and god, the noises he had made...Entangled in each other, Sherlock could tell that John felt the same way, that this was where they belonged, this was where they were always meant to be.  
But reality so often and so sadly breaks all, and with a sigh John had gotten up and dressed himself.  
"Why?" Sherlock had asked. A stupid question, one John would've asked, probably. It wasn't the real question, but Sherlock couldn't ask the real one, for reasons he would never be able to satisfactorily explain.  
"Mary." That wasn't the real answer, either, and Sherlock knew it. But Sherlock had let him go, and the next day it was like nothing had happened. More touching yes, a little closer when walking or running together, but nothing anyone could really pick up on, could really define. It was just Sherlock and John, like always, like forever.  
The second time it was because John and Mary had fought, about what Sherlock could've probably deduced at the time, probably could still deduce now but in the end it didn't matter because what happened was that John had come to him.  
He had dumped a bag on he floor next to his chair after barging through the door. Sherlock had looked up from his laptop, having been skimming through cases that were clearly only fours and threes. How could people be so blind?  
"I'm staying here for the night, all right, Sherlock?" John had said in a rough voice, evidence of emotions whirling through him. Not really a question, but there still was a question, a real question hidden behind this statement, one that John dared not ask for fear of the answer.  
Sherlock had stood up, in one fluid motion, and sailed over to john and they had found each other in their arms again and it was like the first time but better because Sherlock could continue what he started, learn more, gather data, all the while feeling safe and loved and loving and knowing that John was there, as he had apparently always been. They lay together in the dark afterward, holding onto waist and wrist and hips, feeling for each other on the bed, for reassurance that the other was still there, was still with them, and it wasn't all a dream. They fell asleep that way, breathing together, taking in each other's love in a way neither had experienced before because Sherlock had never truly had a loving relationship with someone and John had never loved someone in the way he loved Sherlock. Not even Mary gave him what Sherlock gave him, and Sherlock was always the only exception. And John was always Sherlock's only exception, to everything Sherlock had ever thought about himself. They broke one another's rules and loved each other like they had never loved before.  
Too soon-such a frequently recurring word here, but everything was so quick, happened too fast, too soon-it was morning and John had to go back to Mary, his home. It was an unspoken fact between them, that Sherlock didn't have all of John like John had all of Sherlock. John regretted it, but couldn't fix it. In a simple way, Mary fixed something Sherlock couldn't fix. John had discovered he needed both Mary and Sherlock, and he couldn't leave either, or stick with one. This inbetweeness was perfect for him, if not for Sherlock, who ached to call John his as he had always wanted and now knew it was too late for. John had gotten a taste of what Sherlock couldn't give him and now he needed that too and Sherlock was going to be the last person to take that happiness away from John.  
He had woken as John pushed himself off the bed. He had gotten dressed in perfect silence, and looked at Sherlock, who was still beautifully undressed and in bed, like the last time.   
"I have to go, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock knew that, but didn't want it. He didn't want it to be true, he wanted to wake up in the morning with John beside him and fall asleep at night in the same bed as John.  
"Please John," he had said, moisture he rarely felt appearing in the corners of his eyes. He'd do anything for this man, anything for the man who laid him and his true form out into the open, for the man who cared for him and loved him as no one had ever loved Sherlock and who Sherlock loved so much in return.  
"I have to. You know I do Sherlock."  
He nodded silently, but couldn't accept it. Could never accept it, even though it was true.  
"I need you." A raw whisper, coming from the place he had never bared open to any living soul, to anyone except for John. John, his only exception. "Don't leave me."  
A unreadable look crossed John's face, a tumult of emotion that passed too quickly for Sherlock to analyze, no matter how much in the months after he tried.  
"Goodbye, Sherlock," John had whispered, gently closing the door behind him.  
And then Mary had found out.  
Sherlock didn't know how, which was strange because Sherlock knew everything but maybe it was because Sherlock truly didn't want to know, didn't care, because it had happened and it had torn him and John and what they had, apart.  
She had sent him a simple text message that day, the day in which Sherlock texted John impatiently almost every half hour, asking for cases and random questions and pleading with john to answer, to come back. Instead, Mary had answered.  
"I know what you two did. And it's not going to happen again.  
-MW"  
That was it. One simple text message to send Sherlock's haphazardly constructed relationship with John crashing to the ground.  
First, John had slowly stopped coming over, apologetic, pleading business, or paperwork, or more time with Mary. Sherlock had tried to accept it, to move on, waiting for his next chance to be together with John, but the frequent, quiet and intimate touches during casework that Sherlock had never known he craved had slowed, then stopped. John had become uncomfortable with standing too close, holding Sherlock's gaze for too long. After a while, John stopped coming to some cases, no matter what Sherlock texted him. Sometimes he wouldn't even answer texts and only apologize in person days later. In fact, it got to the point where Sherlock wouldn't see or hear from John at days at a time. For some reason, some bloody idiotic reason, Sherlock went on believing all was fine with the world, (because perhaps he couldn't bear to think otherwise) with him and John (for that was his world, truly, all that mattered) until he realized he hadn't seen nor heard from John in seven days.  
He went to their house. Mary greeted him at the door.  
"No, Sherlock," was what she said in actuality, when she had opened the door to see him. "I don't want you around John anymore. You're a bad influence, a trouble maker, and you put him in too much danger. No. I won't stand for it anymore." She was scolding him like he was a little kid again.  
"He's my friend," Sherlock had said, flabbergasted at what Mary was trying to do. Separate them. They had been separated, for three long years, and it was a disaster and John had told him to never, ever do it again. And he wasn't, didn't ever want to leave John's side but this Mary was making him and it seemed like John was going along with it. "For what?" Sherlock wondered.  
"Well, thank god you're not his only friend." She sounded upset and annoyed and hateful and god how he had hated her, hated her still.  
"He's my only friend," he had murmured under her scathing gaze, seeing her as a criminal he had to face off, only it wasn't true because she was John's wife and the last thing John wanted was a criminal for a wife and there was no way he could hurt her without upsetting John's feelings, which mattered more to him than keeping Mary's pretty face and heart intact.  
"Well, he's mine, Sherlock," she said, and slammed the door in his face.  
Mine. The one thing John could never be to Sherlock.  
Nothing had ever made him as happy then to be with John, always with John. Arguing, laughing, caring, loving, hurting, it didn't matter as long as John was next to him, as long as he knew John was there and would always be there because they were John and Sherlock, a partnership, forever.  
Only not forever because too soon Mary began separating their lives entirely. Quickly, John stopped answering Sherlock's texts, and then Sherlock stopped sending them and it was only a matter of time until Sherlock ran cases without john.  
But even the cases couldn't help, wouldn't dull the voices, wouldn't stop the newly opened up feelings, wouldn't close off the room of John in his mind palace that he soon longed to shut the door on, wouldn't make the world leave him the godamn fuck alone. The cases alone didn't help him survive, to get through each day without needing something more, and always the world would become at the end of the day, or beginning, or I between or sometimes even during a case, a lifeless gray shade of stupidity with only him and John the bright colors in it, John being the dash of color he could never quite reach, like a bright red balloon rising high into the blue sky, an escaping blob of color against a maddeningly dull palate. And even tens wouldn't help clear his mind, stop the insults and sarcasm and hurt pouring out that left him empty inside. Even those rare tens, they barely did a thing anymore.  
So he turned to morphine, but he got used to the highs and the lows and alcohol had always seemed a little stupid, a little too lowbrow for Sherlock's taste, so he turned to his old friend cocaine, and more and more of it until he had reverted back to his old state, Mycroft and Lestrarde and Mrs. Hudson always looking for him and sometimes finding him in pitiful states. They looked for John too, but Mary had whisked him away to America and Mexico and Australia, wherever she could take him to get him away from Sherlock, and even Mycroft couldn't get to John with Mary's interfering presence always in the way. Sherlock spiraled lower and lower and nothing helped, not anything and soon he stared cutting too, along with the drugs and the cigarettes and it was just all too much, and he banged his fists agains the tub and then his head and he plunged the syringe deep into his vein, too much, too soon, and slit his wrists, watching the blood pour out into the tub, drifting on a hazy clod of euphoria that still couldn't quite match what he felt with John until suddenly, a white light hit him, and too soon and too soon and too soon, the great Sherlock Holmes left this world for good.

The dead have no senses. The dead do not see, so Sherlock did not see John's furious argument, a screaming match, with Mary, did not see the sobbing and crying, did not see the ugly divorce that made Mary and John famous for at least three days, did not see the terrible ragged mess of John at Sherlock's funeral, did not see the endless sleepless nights at various flats and hotels, did not see the earnest fucking of both genders that John commited himself too, did not see the quitting of John's job, and did not see John's own downward spiral, one that hit hard and sent him down quickly, leaving him one night in the same place Sherlock had been, the bathtub in 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock did not see John trying to find exactly what Sherlock had been trying to find, the feeling they had when they were involved in a case or falling into bed or just simply together, he did not see John plunge the syringe into his vein again and again and did not see John slit his wrists in the same way he had and did not see, as John saw, the red blood flowing out and away, plunging john into a bright white light, and then finally, nothing.  
They had lost each other. So then nothing was left for either. It was all too much, too fast and then two bright sparks, hopelessly entangled in each other for good, disappeared from this world in their endless search for the togetherness they had, too soon, too soon, too soon.


End file.
